


I Am Not The Only Traveler (who hasn't paid my debts)

by Vel_Rose



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Breeding Kink, Compartmentalization, Cute if you squint, Dark-lite, Dissociation, Excessive Fluids, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hallucinations, Language Barrier, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Misunderstandings, Monsterfucking, Nesting, Nonverbal Communication, Praise Kink, Rey is a moth person, ben has issues, he's a little not right in the head guys, mothman au, severe isolation, tender Ben solo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28543221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vel_Rose/pseuds/Vel_Rose
Summary: Ben is an isolated and kind of detached from reality recluse that moved to the mountains Rey calls home. Rey is the only one of her kind and has been alone as long as she can remember, and in her anxiousness seems to forget that she isn't quite human.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	I Am Not The Only Traveler (who hasn't paid my debts)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not sure what I was thinking with this one. It's definitely one of my more far-out projects. Please heed the warning and the tags. Let me know if I missed anything. 
> 
> Warning: Rey cannot consent because she is a moth person, she does not speak English. She is mostly an animal and driven by the need to eat/survive and reproduce. Ben is seriously socially deprived and not all there (part of the reason he's a recluse) and easily misinterpreted Rey's mating cycle as her coming onto him and pretty much rapes her. He's gentle and tender and a little awkward, but it's still technically non-con. 

The maw is cold today, cold like the ground, blanketing everything in half-melted snow. It makes her bare skin flush between pink and pale. Her toes and fingers a bitten red like she'd been gnawing on them. The maw is cold and empty above her, there is no rumbling of an impending storm, only the stillness of the muddled grey clouds. There will be no warmth on her skin today. 

Despite the maw being empty, she kneels down and cups her hands together, jabbing her straight fingers into the hardened snow and scooping out the white. She digs until she finds plantlife. 

There's a lot of life under the snow, movement from animals, vibrations as they dig and sleep and play while she scavenges above. Winters have always been especially harsh on her. She is thankful that she is alone, that her mouth is the only one she must feed. 

She carefully strips and picks at the sturdy winter plant after identifying it, shoving hardened buds into her mouth and grinding them with her back teeth, though all her teeth are sharp, they are just blunt enough for her to make do. 

She moves on, knees numb and toes unfeeling, a burn-in her soles as she wanders to the next spot, glancing up at the maw again. When it provides no movement, no comfort, she digs again. Her breaths are soft puffs of white that fade around her, the maw devours her breaths, she hopes that it will bring warmth soon. 

This time it is a root, something buried in the ground as her grimy hands and fingers poke and prod at the pale and dirty flesh. She wraps her palm around the stock, the leaves not quite full, but it will be enough. She grounds herself, knees sinking deeper and cracking the snow, she pulls. 

It comes loose when her hands are burning and her teeth are clenched in a hiss, and she falls back with a grunt of victory. It is a turnip, she thinks, she's had them few and far between, but they provide nutrients even with their bitter taste. 

Her mouth waters and her thin tongue slips past her lips like the turnip would be sweet on her palate, but she knows it will not be, and bites down on the muscle. The turnip is placed in her small satchel, she pays close attention to ensure it doesn't escape through one of the holes. 

When the maw grows colder, shudders above her, and twists with the trees, she returns to her alcove. She dumps her satchel, new pine cones, and a few more roots tumbling out, and she does her best to clean them of their dirt with the bunch of pine she'd salvaged. 

She tucks herself as far back from the mouth to her home as she can, turnip rubbed clean, small bite marks taken from it. She listens as the maw howls and whistles, as the trees sigh and creak, as the vibrations in the ground still in the coming darkness. She is glad she is alone, fewer mouths to feed. But she is not glad to be lonely. She takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully, just as she is remiss of the warmth, but knows with it comes the pain in her gut. 

Snow begins to fall outside, silent and secret, her company in the darkness. The maw would turn it to rain soon, and with it would come sweetness. With it would come her hollowness. The twist in her womb. She nibbles the greens of the turnip. 

The maw always provides. 

It does not give her company. 

* * *

She knows it is getting warmer because she sleeps less because there are the beginnings of ice teeth outside her home. They hang on tree limbs and cling to jutting rocks, always downward and never up. She knows because the thin stream begins to chortle again and because there are tracks other than hers in the white. She is glad for the water, glad for the presence of animals. 

She is not glad for the competition. She will need to eat more if she is awake more, so she sets off more than once under the cover of darkness. Sometimes the maw is shrouded, still and blanketing. Others, when she wishes hardest, it is wide and great and beautiful. It is the brightest thing in the darkness, twinkling and laughing. There is a great light up in the darkness sometimes, and it makes the snow around her bright. She is most successful when the maw is giving, her satchel full after half the scavenging time. 

Sometimes the maw brings her color, like the warm days, when it is bright. She collects water from the ice teeth when this happens, her little clay bowls plinking and making lovely little sounds when the teeth drip. She is thankful for the warmth, the transition to it. It is equally hers, private, quiet, and sensual. Her world of possibility. Just as it is when the first birds, bright and cheerful begin to sing, begin to peck at logs, or drill into trees with their loud knocking. 

The stream churns loudly, and she can see the gentle swelling of trees, the buds of life at the end of limbs, the time she must dig through snow shortening. 

She is thankful for the coming warmth, and she stares up at the maw until her eyes water, desperately trying to convey how she feels. She does not want the emptiness that comes with it. 

* * *

Snow falls less now, she knows because the maw began to weep. It left pockmarks in the white, divots from the rainfall. It makes her home a little muddy, and she pulls out the woven tweed and string she had been working on. They cover the mud, a clean space for her to sit and walk and lay on. 

It wakes her in the darkness from fitful images and clenched limbs. It hushes her and excuses the wet tracks on her face. It is a soothing presence that she sits by, curled up with her knees to her chest, little droplets dampening her feet. 

It is still too cold to dance in it, for her to stand beneath it and scrape the dirt from her skin. She must wait until the green becomes fuller. Until the leaves can lighten the blow. 

The maw provides her with rain, the quiet downpour being devoured by the snow, it is a comfort, and it reminds her she is not entirely alone. 

* * *

There is a rumble, a boom and a shout, a cry that streaks across the shrouded maw in a brilliant flash of white. It shakes her bones and rattles her skin. The flashes always come first, and she dislikes when the maw is this way. So violent and unfriendly, she always questions always cries, always begs with her hands in the dirt for it to quiet. Hot tracks of tears run and her nose is scrubbed with the back of her hand too long before the maw listens. 

Sometimes she is tucked into herself even when the light of day comes, even if the maw cries and apologizes as it storms. Sometimes she cannot feel her legs when it finally softens when the streaks and screaming and shaking finally dies down. 

For nights she is traumatized, she does not trust the open maw, not until it brings a quiet warmth or sweetness to her that lures her out. 

For a time, the maw is happy to have her under it again, even though she sleeps less and less the more the leaves grow. There is very little snow now, and very many animals. The silence and privacy of the cold are gone until the maw feels tired again, for why else would it be darker longer if it was not tired? 

She misses the privacy of the cold sometimes, misses the silence and the blanket so thin about her frame. 

* * *

The warmth is tangible now, and she can feel it on her skin when she wakes in her alcove. She believes it will be the first time she can bathe. She does not take her satchel, for she is not without food or sustenance, and it is not warm enough for the sweetness she is beginning to crave. 

She ventures the familiar yet changed path to her stream, plant life reaching out to kiss her, soft damp earth under her feet and between her toes. The maw is bright today, a kiss on her skin, a friendly gesture even with the gentle clap of leaves in the chilled wind. 

Her stream is without guests when she arrives, though she can see indents of tracks in the mud and the displacement of some of her pebbles. The stream is for everyone, so she tries not to think about it. 

It is cold when she steps in it, a low hiss in her throat and a gentle peeling of her lips. The water sways around her, a steady pressure that laps at her ankles and gently seduces her in further. She wades in until it is up to her knees and she lowers herself in the cold pressure. 

The stream caresses her ribs, splashes playfully at her underarms, and makes her yelp. She leans in as far as she can without damaging herself, washing the silk between her legs, rubbing the chill up her breastbone and to the column of her neck. She washes as gingerly as she can, trying to enjoy the first of many before she becomes too cold. 

Her hair is clumpy with twigs and pine needles, dirt has matted it to her scalp, so she takes extra care washing the silky strands, combing through it with her fingers. It is the part of her that takes the longest. 

But it is the one she loves most. 

Her hair is the color of a faun's fur, the color of a buck's antler, the color of new dirt and clay from the river. Under the light of the maw, it can get as deep as the succulent berries that birds feast upon. 

When she hears twigs snap, she thinks nothing of it. The stumbled approach much like a struggling baby through the trees for the first time. Still, she hurries along, wringing out her hair and placing it to her shoulder, she does not want to sully someone's water with her presence. 

She climbs from the stream, wading through it with a smile on her face, the chill of it no longer bothering her. There are fewer trees over this part of the stream, and the maw gives her warm kisses again as she wanders along the embankment. Her eyes are on the collection of pebbles sprawled at her feet, she has not collected them for some time, their smooth surfaces both useful and appealing to her. 

She glances up on a whim, animals had collected at her stream, dipping down and bowing to it, wadding through it to the other side. Their ears twitch and tails swish, she watches them a moment before heading back to her alcove. 


End file.
